The Fifth Dimension
by Phoenix.G.Fawkes
Summary: A series of independent oneshots set in Miles Vorkosigan's universe. Different characters, different ratings and stories. Written for alphabetasoup
1. Jeremiad

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold. Title's been taken from Cesare Pavese's poem.

**Theme: J** is for **J**eremiad

**Fandom:** Miles Vorkosigan

**Characters:** Piotr Vorkosigan.

**Summary:** 'He still sees them everywhere'. Piotr Vorkosigan's POV on those he has lost.

Music: Breakfast at Tiffany's – Deep Blue Something

* * *

**Death will come and will have your eyes**

He still sees them everywhere. He sees them soaring up the sky, their figures fading within the blue, their white clothes swirling around their bodies like clouds. He hears their anguished screams in the night when all is silent. He sees their reflections on the sparkling lake's surface, he sees their faces beside his on the mirrors. He sees them in his dreams and during his watchful hours.

They are with him everywhere he goes. They are his shadow, the ragged breathing that escapes his lips. He cannot run away from them and neither does he want to.

They are his guilt, his pain, but also his solace. As years go by and he starts to feel old and tired, loneliness creeping in even though he is surrounded by people, they become his preferred company.

He sits in his favourite spot by the lake, and he can nearly feel her sitting next to him, dark auburn hair sparkling under the sun, her brown eyes warm and caring, her face proud and beautiful, just like he saw her on their wedding day. And he feels his heart explode because he has never loved her more than now, when her ghostly fingers intertwine with his and she gives him one of her rare, sad smiles.

There is a painful knot in his throat, because he has missed her terribly even though she's never left his side in all these years, in spite of the fact he abandoned her in the face of death. He has missed her more than he can say, more than anyone will ever know, anyone but her, who has always been able to read him like an open book with just a glance.

And then Piotr sees him as well, tall and proud, the predilect son, his chosen heir, the young man who was once supposed to carry on his name, his legacy. The young man who was murdered mercilessly without him being able to do nothing to prevent it.

There is no resentment in the young man's eyes and he can't understand why. He failed this young man, he failed him the way a father should never fail his firstborn and yet, he smiles at him, forgiveness warming his clear eyes. He sits next to Piotr as well, stretching his long legs with ease, as though he hasn't spent the last decades decaying underground. This ghost beside him will be forever young, forever strong, his eyes will be forever sharp, forever bright like his mother's. On the other hand, Piotr is old and torn, each step taking him closer to his grave, but this woman and this young man beside him will live forever as long as he can see them.

They are his guilt, his pain and his regret, his heartache and his wistfulness. They are the burden he has been carrying on his shoulders for what feels like centuries, the burden he will never let go. They are the ones he loved and failed to save and therefore, the reason he will never forgive himself.

But they are also his light, his hope and joy. They are also the happy remembrance of more cheerful times, they are his warmth, his chance at redemption, the reason he goes on.

He still sees them everywhere. In the old, ancient house where they once lived together and he now has learnt to share with his second son and his wife; in the mountains they loved so much, where now he watches with something akin to pride and love how his grandson rides a horse; he sees them in the planet they once sworn to serve and that has changed all around him until becoming unrecognisable. He will never stop seeing them for as long as he breathes, for as long as his heart beats.

When Death finally finds him late one night in his study, it's their eyes the last thing he sees, their eyes and their smiles when he finally crosses the bridge to join them.


	2. Narcotic

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

**Theme: N** is for **N**arcotic. Written for alphabetasoup

**Fandom:** Miles Vorkosigan.

**Summary:** Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. She counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.

* * *

**Sleep tight**

Many people – for some inane reason she will never understand – count sheeps to fall asleep. _Sheeps_. She doesn't think that she's ever seen one in her entire life. Most people in the galaxy haven't either, except for those poor bastards who live in backwater planets such as Auslund or Barrayar where they still make clothes out of wool.

Other people count ships and that makes a little more sense to her. Ships are tangible, useful things, they are a sign of power, a tool. But counting them doesn't work for her, as neither does making lists, drinking a glass of hot milk or swallowing pills. Instead, she schemes.

In her mind she sees the lines of perfectly laid plans without a flaw, schemes and plots form behind her closed eyes, fantasies of victory and riches lulling her to sleep.

But sometimes not even planning to conquer the galaxy is enough to block out the snores.

Fuming, she turns around in the bed, putting her hands over her ears. She would kick him out of bed if she thought that would be of any help. She's tried before, though, without success. For a military man who has spend thirty-five years serving in the army – as he reminds her every five damned minutes – he's not exactly a light sleeper: she bets he could go on snoring through an attack. How he could ever fight in a war, where he would have had to be alert all the time, it's a mystery to her. Perhaps it explains why his career was far from brilliant. Of course, that could also be easily explained by his ineptitude and sheer idiocy.

In times like this she needs to remind herself why she still keeps him around. Apart from the comic relief he involuntary offers, of course. She tries very hard to remember why she found him useful in the first place but is sadly unable to do so. Perhaps she'll remember in the morning, when her senses are fully alert. If she can't… then perhaps she should not keep him around anymore. Her best laid plans would not be thwarted by the Neanderthal snoring beside her, that's for sure.

But now she must sleep, if she wants to keep up tomorrow with that elusive Victor Rotha and the thousand plots she has going on at the same time. She closes her eyes and starts to count.

Decapitation, plasma arc fire, grenades, poisoning, neural disruptor, a bad fall from somewhere thirty-feet high…

Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. Cavilo counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.

By the time she's wondering whether it would look too suspicious if dear Stanis died just like Randall did, she drifts off to sleep, her muscles relaxing, a peaceful smile on her face.


	3. Torrid

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

**Theme:** **T** is for **T**orrid

**Characters:** Delia Koudelka/Duv Galeni

**Summary:** They don't understand what she sees in him. She doesn't understand how they can't see there will never be any other man for her.

Music: 'Lo echamos a suerte' by Ella Baila Sola.

**Eyes of the beholder**

They will never understand.

She knows her friends shake their heads, unable to see how she could ever set her eyes and hopes on him. She knows her sisters mock her endlessly on his formal and somewhat stiff ways that belong to another time, another place. She knows that her father, even in all his benevolence, worries over her.

'It's not that I don't like him,' she hears him whisper to Ma one night. 'He's a very nice, decent young fellow – well, perhaps not that young – and he has an impressive career and everything but … I don't know. He seems so… So formal, and correct and – cold. We were so different, remember? Sometimes I wonder – are we doing the right thing, letting her go through with this? What if in a few years she regrets it? What if…?'

His wife hastens to reassure him, saying that heir daughter is not foolish and that they must trust her judgement… but sometimes, she can see the flickering doubt in the eyes of her mother as well.

She knows this, and she wishes she could make them understand but how could she explain it to them? How could she explain that even though he doesn't embrace her fiercely, even though they don't share passionate kisses or moonlight strolls, that even though he doesn't pronounce incensed words of love she can still see it in his eyes?

They would never understand. They cannot understand, because they haven't felt his soft, warm touch when his fingers intertwine with hers. They haven't been gently wrapped in his jacket like she has when she forgets to bring a shawl on a chilly night. They haven't seen his lips curving in a smile, a smile she knows it's meant only for her, and even though it's usually a small, rare smile, it makes her heart jump and her knees weaken.

They cannot understand, because they don't know him. They don't know he always asks for her opinions on matters as diverse and complex as politics, economics and diplomacy, even though she barely has a decree on Social Studies and nobody's ever cared about what she could think about anything more serious than a ball. They don't know he listens to her intently even when she chatters on, they don't know he likes to twirl strands of her hair between his fingers, they don't know he enjoys to hear her sing even though she can't carry a tune. They don't know he goes out of his way to please her, to get her favourite flowers and to plan visits to places she'll like.

They don't see the way his eyes lit up when she smiles at him, they don't hear his soft voice telling her about his childhood, sharing with her memories no one else has ever known about. They don't see, and therefore, none of them can understand.

Because he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve they assume he doesn't have one. Because he doesn't show passion they assume he doesn't feel it, because he is not fond of public displays of affection they assume he doesn't care about her. But she knows better.

She knows his heart beats faster when she places her hand on his chest, she knows his breath catches when she takes his arm, she knows that when he places in her hand a locket that once belonged to his mother he is giving his heart away for her to keep.

There is no poetry, no displays of wild, fervent passion between them. He doesn't serenade her like the heroes in the fairy tales she loved as a child, he doesn't make promises of eternal love for everyone to hear. She doesn't need them. She knows, with the same certainty she knows the sun will rise in the morning, that he loves her with all his heart. And she knows as well there will never be any other man for her.

They will never understand.


	4. Writhing

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

**Prompt: W** is for **W**rithing. Written for alphabetasoup

**Characters:** Princess Kareen, Vidal Vordarian.

**Summary:** 'Ever since she's heard of her child's death, there is a small girl trapped inside her body, struggling to escape.'

* * *

**Trapped**

Ever since she's heard of her child's death, there is a small girl trapped inside her body, struggling to escape. Even though Princess Kareen does not say a word, even though she does not shed a tear, the small girl underneath her skin is screaming at top of her lungs, hitting her flesh from the inside, her miniature, weak fists bleeding along with her broken heart.

Princess Kareen shows no sign of it. She walks down the corridors like a ghost, nods at the tainted lies Vordarian whispers in her ear, stays still when his treacherous fingers grasp her body possesively. She doesn't flinch, even though his touch burns holes on her skin, she doesn't recoil even though his kisses taste like poison. She remains cool and unaffected, nothing can reach her through the walls of stone she has built around her. Her child's death has devoid the world of colour and light and robbed her the ability to feel, to care, so she just stands there, as the statue that has become Vordarian's new toy.

Inside her, though, the small girl's grief is eating her alive, her pain is scorching her from the inside out and there is nothing she can do to stop it. The small girl struggles and writhes, her tears burn her eyes, her sobs echoe in the depths of her mind… but nothing reaches the cold surface her face has become.

Until she sees it. A black, impossibly small shoe. A shoe that she's looked at a million times, a shoe she's hold in her hands as though it were the key to get away from her misery, a shoe that was the proof that her life was over, that her child was gone…

A shoe that is completely dry, a shoe that has never been under water.

In an instant that stretches into eternity, the final piece falls into place, the walls come crashing down. The small girl is suddenly not so weak, not so little. She breaks free of the chains that tied her will, she tears apart the veil that covered her eyes. All the heartache, all the fury, the impotence, every feeling that she tried to trap inside her reaches the surface, burning her from the inside out.

She launches herself forward, her hands aiming for Vordarian's neck, intent on inflicting as much pain as his lies have caused her.

She never reaches him. Blue light consumes her life before she can see it coming and her lifeless corpse crashes against the floor before she has time to close her eyes, a small, black shoe still clutched in her hand.


	5. Dragon

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

**Rating:** G

**Theme**: **D** is for **D**ragon. Written for alphabetasoup

**Characters:** Miles Vorkosigan, Elena Bothari, Ivan Vorpatril.

**Summary**: She is the most beautiful princess in the entire kingdom and he might not be the handsomest – nor the tallest – knight in all land, but he still dreams to become her champion.

* * *

**Her Knight in Shining Armour**

She is a princess with sparkling eyes and long tresses as black as a raven's wing. She is so beautiful that the entire kingdom – the entire Imperium – is enraptured by her looks. She is so captivating that men fall in love with her at first sight, so graceful that all ladies are filled with envy.

One of these ladies, a hideous, wrinkled witch who concocts potions and filters with rabbits' legs and toads' eyes, decides to lock the lovely princess away in an ivory tower that rises into the blue sky. The tower is so high that no stairs can reach the princess' window, the walls so smooth that no one can climb them without slipping; the door, made of black iron, is unbreakable. Countless spells of the most ancient magic protect the ivory walls from intruders and the tower is surrounded by a swamp where many have perished.

The evil sorceress is not content with these protections. The princess is very beautiful indeed, so all the Lord Vors have fallen to her charm and will try any means to rescue her. She cannot let that happen. She thinks and thinks, she seeks guidance in the stars and sacrifices vile creatures in her smelly cauldron until she finds her answer.

A dragon. An enormous, magnificent creature with red and opalescent scales, with wings so large that can obscure the sky when they are stretched, teeth as sharp as daggers and orange flames sprouting from its mouth. The knights in the kingdom are all brave and strong and yet they perish one by one, slaughtered by the fantastic beast. The princess soon loses hope of ever being rescued from such cruel fate and starts to languish in her tower.

But he is not any knight. He might not be the handsomest – nor the tallest – knight in all kingdom, but he is astute and resourceful. He might not look dashing riding his valiant steed – he is pretty certain as well that none of the gorgeous beasts regular knights ride have undignified names such as Fat Ninny – and he might not be a general feared in all land, but he is brave and his love for the princess, as deep as the roots of the oak tree where they usually play, is the torch that guides him.

The exact nature of his stratagems to break through the many spells and barriers is hazy in his mind. It doesn't really matter. In his fantasy, he just does something very clever nobody thought of before, and therefore he is the only one able to overcome the sorceress' tramps.

What he does think about, and replays in his mind over and over again, is his marvellous victory over the terrible dragon. He slays the beast with the sword – that it's actually a dagger, but that's irrelevant in his fantasy – that his grandfather, the great warrior, gave to him. The dragon falls, defeated, in front of thousands of people who look at him in awe. But he pays no attention to them: he only has eyes for the princess, who watches everything from her lonely window in her ivory tower. He never bothers to imagine how he manages to climb the walls or how he unlocks the door. All that matters in his fantasy is the look in the princess sparkling eyes when she sees him. Awe, adoration, excitement, joy. All those feelings shine in her eyes as she breaks into a run and throws her arms around his neck, and then she –

'Miles… Mileeeees… C'mon, midget, wake up.'

'_Don't call me midget!_'

The eight-year-old boy jumps to his feet and raises to his full height, which is not very impressing. His cousin approaches the spot under the old oak tree where he was just lying – and rescuing beautiful princesses – a moment ago, a grin on his handsome face.

'All right, all right,' the older boy conceded. 'You're not a midget… even though you look like one.'

Miles clenches his hands in tiny fists, then he relaxes. Punching Ivan would only lead him to break his own bones and he's had enough experience in that area to know how particularly painful it is. Instead he decides on a different counterattack.

'Well, you look like a mannequin from one of those shops where Aunt Alys buys her clothes but I don't rub it on your face, do I?'

'I don't look like a… a… whatever you called me!'

'Do too.'

'Do not!'

Their banter reaches an abrupt end when Miles gets a glimpse of a girl that's approaching them. A girl with hair as dark as a raven's wing, rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes that manage to take his breath away every single time he sees her. She smiles at them both warmly.

'Hi, boys.'

'Hi, Elena!' Miles replies brightly. Ivan, who still looks sour because of his cousin's taunts, offers a dull ''Lo, Elena.'

'Ivan, can I ask you a favour?'

'I can help you,' Miles pipes up at once. Ivan looks relieved – being around Miles has taught him to be wary of people's polite requests – but Elena looks uneasy.

'Thanks, Miles but… See, the kite that Da gave me got stuck in one of the pines and… Well, I thought Ivan could help me.'

Miles is not the sort of person who lets mere obstacles stop him.

'I can get a ladder…'

'And if you fall, you'll break all your bones,' Ivan cuts him in, his tone bored. 'I'll go, Elena.'

As he watches them go, an eight-year-old Miles Vorkosigan needs all his will to fight back tears. What saves his dignity in the end is the knowledge that all the knights who are worthy of getting mentioned in legends never surrender, no matter the odds. They persevere and conquer where others have failed, because they are brave but also because they are smart.

He might not be the handsomest, strongest or even the tallest knight of all land. But he is smart, smarter than Ivan and all the knights in fairy tales that fall prey to the evil sorceress. But above all, he is determined.

Perhaps today he is merely a child too short for his age, with a funny face and fragile bones. But one day… One day he will the man who slays Elena's dragons and saves her, and perhaps, just perhaps, he will be the one who wins her heart.


	6. Perversion

Prompt: P is for Perversion

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

**Prompt:** **P** is for **P**erversion. Written for alphabetasoup

**Characters:** Princess Kareen, Prince Serg, Ges Vorrutyer, Emperor Ezar.

**Summary:** She used to be a creature of light. Not anymore.

* * *

**In the dark**

She sits in the shadows, as usual. Her black gown fades within the dark walls, hiding her from sight, her hair is the exact shade of the tapestry behind her. Nobody walking down this corridor, not even the experienced servants who know the Residence better than its owners, will be able to see her, camouflaged as she is. She prefers it this way.

Shadows and dark corners have become her allies in these past few years. Out of sight is out his mind and her chances of surviving another day rise. She has turned struggling for survival into a fine art and the darkness that surrounds her always suits her. It fits her body like the mourning gown that was just handed to her by the dressmaker, it fits her heart like the bleakness that fills her nights.

It wasn't always this way. Once she was a creature of light. Her body lithe and vibrant, her silvery laughter echoed in the halls of her parents' home. Lips that were always ready to curve into a warm smile, eyes alight with joy. There was a bounce to her step that spoke of confidence, of a desire to get noticed. Her voice was always a little higher than other girls', her hands gesticulated with a little more passion. Her movements around the dancefloor a little more graceful, more enthusiastic than the rest. Wherever she went she attracted attracted the eye, the spotlight always on her. She basked in the heat of heir admiration and reflected back light. Glowing, full of life, bright like a star with the warmth of the sun.

Darkness came to her life in the arms of a dashing prince. All eyes in the ballroom were on her as she waltzed with that handsome, intriguing young man who would one day run the fate of the Imperium. Dizzy with all the emotions exploding inside her, she closed her eyes and let him lead the way.

From that dance followed others and soon an old lady was talking to her parents about a dowry and wedding arrangements. She felt confused at first and wildly flattered once she'd realised the offer was for real. The events that followed took place in such quick sucession that her memories from those days are a blur. Before she knew it the ceremony was only hours away. Fitted into a sparkling gown, her hair was braided with white flowers and diamonds. As she contemplated this strange new reflection in the mirror, she heard her mother's soft voice ushering the maids away. Her mother's solemn face appeared beside her in the mirror. To her surprise, her mother asked if she was certain she wanted to go through with this. She was about to ask her mother whether she had gone insane, but the deadly serious look in the older woman's eyes stopped her.

_What's wrong, Mother?_

Because there was something not quite right in her mother's eyes, something that resembled fear.

_Are you sure? Are you sure you want to marry him?_

Of course she was sure. This was by far the best offer she would ever get. She didn't fool herself that she loved the prince or that he loved her back, but she would, one day, be Empress of Barrayar. It wasn't only about living in the Residence and getting a new social status: as a Vor she had a duty to the Imperium, and she could not think of a higher way of fulfilling it than giving birth to the throne's heir and helping to shape the destiny of her homeland.

A fleeting look of anguish crossed her mother's reflection when she said she wanted to go through with the wedding, but it vanished so fast she thought she had imagined it. She wonders now, just what her mother had known… She shakes her head. It's best not to dwell on such things. Her mother wanted only her happiness.

A mother would not sacrifice her own daughter… But her mother was a Vor as well, and Vors are supposed to sacrifice everything to the Imperium.

She entered her marriage with the naïvety of a proper Vor maiden, her head filled with daydreams and innocent fantasies. Her wedding night had been a rude awakening.

She remembers waking up covered in sweat, trembling in fear and pain. The sheets, torn and stained with dry blood, were tangled around nude legs covered in angry red marks.

She knew that the first time could be traumatic for a woman. However, she was naïve, not an idiot. She knew that most women did not have to put up with what she went through the first nights of her marriage or none of them would have lived beyond thirty. After a few weeks of endless nightly horrors and mornings in which she could not rise from bed because of the pain, she sought out Ezar. She had never felt so ashamed in her life, so dirty and useless as when she showed him the bruises in her arms, the cuts in her legs, the burns in her neck. He was sympathetic and understanding when she broke into desperate sobs, he held her in his arms and kissed her forehead. He called a middle-aged woman with a face that seemed to have been carved into stone, who took care of her injuries and managed to calm her down. Once she had recovered and the woman had left, Ezar's face became cold and expressionless. Till the day she dies, she'll never forget his words.

_I understand, princess, what you are going through. Believe me that if I could, I would spare you the pain. It's too late for my son, though… Barrayar's future is now in your hands, princess. Barrayar needs another heir to the throne and I don't know any other way to produce one. You swore you would serve Barrayar. Now it's the time to do so._

Until she got pregnant, she could expect no more protection from the Emperor. His help went as far as providing her with proper medical care and, apparently convincing, his son not to marr her face or cause some serious injury preventing her from fulfilling her duties.

The princess doesn't know for sure whether the Emperor intervened – if he did it was not out of concern for her welfare. Perhaps her husband just grew bored of a victim upon which he could not inflict his favourite means of torture. Either way he made himself scarce for months, which brought relief to his young wife. The respite was short-lived.

The prince left for days at a time and she never cared for his whereabouts until she started to find young maids so severely injured that they could not move. The princess recognised the bruises and burns at once, although these were much worse than anything that had been inflicted on her. Soon she saw young boys too, who worked either in the stables or the kitchen,with lacerated skin and haunted eyes.

Then _he_ started to be around all the time.

She didn't think anything of it at first. Her sheltered childhood had not prepared her for her new life and she was blind and deaf to the signs. She knew there was something about that man, whose eyes alone managed to chill her to the bone, something obscure lurking under his charming surface. She saw he spent more and more time with her husband, she heard the intimate tone they used with each other – her education, though, did not let her put the pieces together.

It wasn't until one fateful night when she walked into her chambers (her own private chambers, damnit) and she saw them…

She was so shocked she could not even scream. She wanted to run, to run and hide from all the things her mother had never told her about… but she could only stand there, gaping.

Blazing fury ignited her husband's eyes when he caught sight of her. Her heart jumped to her throat at the manic, murderous glare he shot in her direction. "_This is it, he'll get rid of me for good_" she remembers the thought. But then _he_ spoke.

"_Why don't you invite her to join, Serg?"_

She screamed and struggled, bit and kicked, fighting each step of the way. She remembers strong hands tearing apart her beautiful gown, she remembers writhing desperately, the ropes lacerating the tender skin of her wrists, nails digging into her hips.

Serg was not even looking at her. Her husband only had eyes for _him_, whose eyes were alight with lust and glee. _He_ even dared to make suggestions, to point out different and creative ways to shame her further, to break her down into little pieces that could never be glued back together.

She learnt to hide in shadowy corners, became used to walking in the dark. She should not have bothered. Serg showed no interest in her unless _he_ was there. Only when the news of her pregnancy reached her husband's ears did the prince take a new interest in his young wife, but after the first miscarriage Ezar learnt to be more cautious.

She still seeks out the darkness, though. The creature of light she once was is shattered and her eyes can no longer bear the brightness, so accustomed to shadows have they become. Shadows have protected her in the past, among them she feels safe. Darkness is her friend, in darkness she can trust, unlike the myriad of lies her life before this was. Sparkling lies, lies that shone brightly under rays of sunshine, a sunshine she can no longer feel on her skin, let alone her soul. Lies that have broken her more than torture and humiliation, to the point where she cannot stand the light anymore.

In the darkness, instead, she has found her place and so she lives in shadows.

The day news of Prince Serg's, and his _friend's_, death reach her ears, she opens the curtains at her window. Perhaps, just perhaps, it's time to let the light in again.


	7. Luddite

Disclaimer: Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold

**Disclaimer:** Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold

**Rating: **PG – 13

**Prompt: L** is for **L**uddite

**Characters:** The Galen family.

**Summary:** There's blood on her hands and nothing will ever wash it away. Or the thoughts of Duv Galeni's mother during the Komarran Revolt.

* * *

**Lady Macbeth's Soliloquy**

There's blood on her hands.

She stares at them, smooth, pale skin tainted by crimson stains water cannot wash away. For the life of her, she can't remember how she got them.

Then David's anguished cries pierce her ears, shatter her soul, and she remembers.

He looks so pale. His skin is milky white, flawless except for the burns and bruises on the left side of his face and body. He wasn't so pale before. There was always a healthy color suffusing his cheeks, which turned into a white, greenish hue once he started to live underground.

'Madam, is this him?'

It takes her forever to look up and even then she can't quite look the officer in the eye.

_No, sir. This is not my eldest son. My son was smart, he was brave, he was full of life. There was a spark in his eyes and a proud note in his voice, a bounce in his step and he always walked with his head held high, just as he'd been taught. He loved his family and his homeland, and he would have given everything for them._

_My son was only seventeen years old, sir. __He can't be a corpse._

She says nothing. Instead she nods, and the men wearing green uniforms and somber looks try to cover the body with a grey sheet, but David's arms are still wrapped around his brother's neck. One of them tries to pull him gently away, David doesn't budge. The other one lets out a frustrated groan and grabs the boy by his waist. He raises David without effort, paying no attention to the boy's loud protests. She watches it all in silence, but when the first officer makes a move towards his stunner she reacts.

'Let's go, David.'

'But, Mom, we can't leave him here with… with _them_.'

His words fall on deaf ears. She drags him away and he keeps protesting, tears still rolling down his cheeks, his entire body shaking from grief and shock that are quickly turning into fury. Fury at her, at the men that pushed him away from his brother, at this never-ending war and perhaps at his own homeland too, which keeps asking for more young lives, more violence, more blood.

He soon falls into silence, his face resembling a marble statue. Tears are still glistening in his lashes and every now and then his breathing chokes, but not another word escapes his lips. He is young _(oh so young, so horribly, hopelessly young)_, but he's already the soldier his father has trained.

She wonders, for a fleeting instant, where her baby boy has gone, because she can no longer find him in this young man walking beside her, whose eyes are cold and dull, his expression forever serious and severe.

_He is what you have made him to be._

Once they enter the rundown warehouse that has become their refuge, their headquarters, their shelter – but never, never their home – he lets go of her hand and heads directly to the furthest corner, where his tools lie. Soon he's engrossed in his work, which has nothing to do with either school or house chores.

She looks at him for a moment, the frown on his forehead, his lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles occasionally turning white. She wants to say something, anything, but there's an abyss between them no bridge can connect.

-

She's asleep when they arrive. It took her a long time to finally close her eyes, troubled by David's muffled sobbing and the emptiness inside her chest even more than by the realization that daybreak approached and she and David remained the warehouse's only occupants.

Her eyes snap open at once, her fingers already curling around her stunner. She doesn't cry out, she doesn't jump to her feet when she sees herself surrounded by ghostly shadows whispering among themselves. She just lies on her side and points at the one nearest to her, waiting for her opportunity. A familiar voice calling her name makes her muscles relax, but she doesn't let go of the stunner until he's kneeling beside her and assures her that no one's followed them.

'What took you so long?' she hisses and he lets out a weary sigh.

'ImpSec was there.' At her sharp intake of breath, he hastens to add: 'Don't worry, they didn't see us. Farr was almost caught but he managed to get away in time.'

'You got the blueprints, then?'

He nods, a triumphant glint in his eyes that soon vanishes when he sees David tossing and turning a few meters away. He bites his lip and even in the dim light she can see that his face has turned grey. 'What about…?'

'It was him,' she cuts him off shortly. 'ImpSec took us to see him – don't worry, I made sure we weren't followed.'

His hands clench into fists. 'How was…? Never mind. We'll make sure they pay, now that we know where to strike.' He cups her face, with a tenderness that conflicts with the hatred blazing in his eyes. 'I promise you, they will pay for what they did to our child, for what they did to all of our children. Not a single one of them will be left unavenged, I swear it on my life.'

Her throat constricts, as images of her child sprawled on that cold metal table flood her mind. He caresses her cheek, his gaze more intense and scorching than ever, and she nods as he keeps talking, hatred and passion fueling him. They will get their justice, for their child and all those that have perished at hands of the enemy. The Barrayarran scum won't escape unscathed, not after all they've robbed from Komarr, from them. The time to fight back has come, victory against oppression is near and now they must keep on with the battle until the last one of them hasn't any breath left, because in the end all the sacrifices will be worth it.

She takes in each one of his words and recognizes many of them as her own. Ever since Barrayar took away their freedom, the same fire has burnt inside both of them, pushing them towards the battle, to the glorious fight of resistance. They both knew the risks, they both knew that they had children depending on them, but the calling was stronger, the love for Komarr and the want of freedom ruled out any other concern. They've poured their hearts, souls and minds into this war since the very beginning, and she knows they must stay together until the very end.

Tonight, though, those inspiring words sound hollow, distant, as though he were speaking in a foreign language. Perhaps exhaustion is wearing him down, perhaps he is also thinking of their lost child. They both agreed a long time ago that they were willing to make sacrifices for the cause, but what happens when the price scorches your skin and scars your heart, bleeding the life from you, leaving only an empty shell?

'We have to get going, now.' He urges, glancing at their comrades, who are either tending to their wounds or gathering weapons and tools. 'We have an advantage now, but we can lose it.'

She swallows, because her entire body hurts, her mind is tired and unfocused and there's an ache inside her chest that she knows it will never subside. She understands, though, and rises from her mattress. He almost gives her a smile that falters before curving his lips.

'Go and wake up David. We need him.'

She freezes on the spot, her heart pounding in her chest.

'He's tired, Ser. He's barely slept since…'

She leaves the sentence hanging there, they both know the ending and she'd rather not say the words outloud. He lets out another sigh and suddenly he looks like every year of his life is weighing on his shoulders.

'Only he can get in there, Sara. Not even you are small enough to do it.'

She hesitates. She doesn't want to voice her fears, she doesn't want to acknowledge the chill that's crushing her heart in a vice-like grip, to tremble or show weakness. Certain instincts, though, run deeper than reason, than idealism, certain instincts are more powerful than any cause.

'It's too dangerous, Ser. He's so young…'

'He's already done this. Don't treat him like a child, he's earned the right to be considered an adult after all he's done for the cause.'

He doesn't wait for her reply and instead heads towards David's mattress in long strides. She hurries to keep up with him and watches him kneel by their son's side and place a hand on his slim shoulder. David's eyes snap open at once and he jumps to his feet, wildly looking around for a threat. When he only sees his parents he relaxes slightly, but his eyes don't lose their alert gaze.

'What is it, Father?'

She's noted that he no longer calls him Dad, not since he's been recruited to carry out missions like the rest of his comrades. On occasion he even calls him 'sir', as though Ser were his superior officer instead of his father. She doesn't want to ponder on what it could mean.

Ser rises to his full height and places both hands on his son's shoulders, looking into his eyes intently.

He briefly explains the plan, or at least the part pertaining to David. No one but Ser ever knows the plans and strategies in their entirety, it would make things too easy for ImpSec if one of them was captured.

David has always been bright and understands what he is asked to do much faster than most men twice his age would have. But then David was raised listening to whispers of plots and schemes, he has been trained by his father on strategy and subterfuge, he is familiar with the way Ser's mind works.

She watches him closely, trying to glimpse a flicker of fear or doubt in his grey eyes like she has seen sometimes before (and she's always kept quiet about those, but today she won't, today she won't force her, now, only child to face his worst terrors, Ser's plans be damned). All she sees on his face is grim resolve as he nods, the certainty of the gesture weighing on her like a gravestone placed on her shoulders. Her throat constricts and her chest hurts when she sees that Ser is right: he no longer is a child. Between yesterday – before ImpSec confirmed their worst fears – and tonight something has shifted inside her son, leaving him irrevocably changed. She realizes now that the last shard of innocence has been shattered, destroyed by the cruelty of a never-ending war, by the violence of idealism and oppression clashing and disrupting the world in their wake. Her child will never be the same and for a moment she feels a bout of anger swell inside her, as though those monsters had murdered both her children instead of taking away just her firstborn. Then the fury becomes a pang of pain as she realizes that she's equally to blame for her child's slaughtered innocence.

She pushes those thoughts out of her mind, though, as she watches Ser squeeze the boy's shoulders almost tenderly, a proud note in his voice when he says:

'You'll be alright, David. I know you won't fail me.'

Their son nods, but there's no relief showing on his face, no sign of pleasure in his father's praise, which he's tried so hard to earn in the past. There's only grim, resigned resolve, and she feels as though she's been stabbed.

_What have we done to our own child?_

-

There's blood on her hands.

Everywhere she turns she sees death and despair, horror and mutilation. The world around her is in ruins, the overwhelming silence barely shaken by agonizing cries of pain that seem to come from all sides. She walks in a daze, her eyes fall on the disfigured faces and the twisted, broken limbs, her lungs fill with smoke and her mouth with ashes.

Her ears are still ringing from the explosion, but some part of her troubled mind registers distant sirens and she should feel the fear of being caught, relief that help is on the way. She feels nothing. The fear of being captured is distant and foreign and she knows it's already too late for help. The cries of pain are few and they start to subside as those unlucky enough not to have been killed instantly lose their strength and start spiraling into nothingness.

She nearly trips and barely manages to regain her balance before falling to the ground. She glances down and is surprised to see a doll at her feet. She idly wonders why there is a doll here of all places, when dawning comprehension hits her like a bolt of lightning. This is no doll.

It's a child.

The long, dark tresses must have once been beautiful, but now they're tangled and sticky. The chubby face is smeared with dirt and blood, blue eyes glassed over. Her dress (one of those laced, horrid things with ridiculously long skirts that Vor ladies seem to thrive upon) is torn and burnt, the small form lies impossibly still, her right arm twisted at a strange angle. The body looks like a lifeless, human-sized doll and all of a sudden, she wants to scream, to tear her hair, to run as fast and far away as her legs will take her.

Instead she falls on her knees and for some inane reason she takes the little girl in her arms and starts rocking back and forward, the child's blood smearing her blouse, marring her soul.

She tries to remember what their target was. She tries to remember Ser's incensed words of encouragement as they got ready for this mission, she tries to picture her comrades' hopeful faces. She tries to remember the cause, the reasons, the conviction she once had. She tries to muster the fury and the rage that have fueled her ever since the day she had to explain to her four-year-old son why his beloved Auntie Rebecca would never come to visit again. She tries to picture her husband's wounded expression as they heard the news, her eldest son's confusion and fear.

All she can see is the lifeless corpse of the five-year-old child she's cradling in her arms, all she can remember is her son's still form sprawled on that cold table and she surprises herself by wishing with all her might that this girl's mother is dead as well, never to go through the excruciating pain that is ripping her heart apart.

Tears start rolling down her cheeks, tears that soon become tinged with red as they leave trails on her blood-stained cheeks, tears that fall upon the little girl's tangled hair. Air seems to have abandoned her lungs not to ever come back and she couldn't care less.

Rebecca, in the end, got it easy. She stood up for what she believed, she defended her land on her own terms and met a merciful end by a blue spark. Her sister-in-law didn't perish slowly, decaying inside until there was nothing human left. She did not see her dreams stomped by the enemy, her idealism and passion crushed by her own blood-stained hands. Rebecca might have given up her life for an ideal, but she did not trade her soul, her very essence for an impossible utopia; Rebecca did not lie awake at night during endless hours haunted by crimes perpetrated by her own hand.

She wishes she could be Rebecca now.

She starts to hum a lullaby, the same one she used to sing to her children at bedtime, the same one she hummed when she dried their tears and comforted them after a nightmare, once upon a time.

She keeps humming and rocking the little girl, her blood the exact shade of her eldest son's scraped knees, the exact shade of her fallen comrades wounds, the exact shade that painted Solstice's ground on that doomed day when their fate was sealed.

-

There's celebration at their headquarters that day, subdued due to respect to fallen brothers in arms and ImpSec's tighter security.

She avoids them all and in her quest for solitude she finds her son throwing up all the contents of his stomach. She kneels beside him and supports him until he's done, then she embraces him fiercely as he trembles and sobs. He is uninjured on the outside, but in his sullen eyes and the greenish hue of his skin she can glimpse the open wounds inside.

'Mom, there's blood all over you,' he says once he regains enough self-control to speak. 'You should clean up.'

'Later, David. They're just clothes.'

They stand still for the longest time, her little child in her arms, not unlike the girl she held a few hours ago. He looks shaken and pensive and perhaps a little broken, and she wishes she could fix him, could give back to his eyes their lost spark. Instead she just holds him close, because there are some things she is not willing to sacrifice.

'Mom,' he asks after a moment, 'where has all that blood come from?'

He suddenly looks wary of her, warier than he's ever looked in front of his father. She sighs and feels very weak and tired.

'Does it matter, David? Blood will always be blood, no matter if it comes from brave Komarrans or traitorous Barrayarrans, whether it belongs to friends or foes. In the end, it's all the same blood, the same pain, the same loss.'

He stares at her, clearly not understanding what she means. She wishes she could explain herself better, she wishes she could make him see… but she and Ser both have made sure he would never see, he would never know any different than what they taught him, that he would never have the chance to make his own decisions, follow his own path.

The worst crimes can be committed with the best of intentions, and the end does not justify all means. She wishes she could have seen it sooner, she wishes she could take back all the pain she's inflicted, the despair her actions have caused. She wishes she had learnt to build rather than destroy. She wishes she could be free from the chains made of ache and regret. But above it all, she wishes she could have both of her children back in her arms.

She knows, though, that wishing is futile.

There's blood on her hands and nothing will ever wash it away.


End file.
